Do You Wanna Touch
by TheShatteredLight
Summary: They do what they do because it's fun. She doesn't care about anything else, just that she gets what she wants. The fact that she gets it from Brittany is just a fanciful coincidence. AU. Please R&R!  .


Hey guys. :)

My first Glee fic, so, be nice? Pretty please?

It's Brittana, because Brittana is awesome. And side Faberry maybe too, if you peoples feel the need for it. ^_^ Set sometime during the second season, pre-Sexy, and it's pretty much AU after this chapter, which is really more of a prologue. :D

Thanks for reading, though, guys. Really, it means a lot. 3

Much love to you all!

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><p>The door slams. Brittany doesn't want to open her eyes. Not yet. She feels the slight pressure of something warm push against her neck - the gentle coax of a finger, the flick of a tongue, a rush of hot air - inevitability needs no invitation. It plays with the beating of her heart, the haze in her head. She knows it's wrong - no lies can mask that. But she denies that she knows for fear of knowing. She has convinced herself of it for so long, with such fierceness, her morality so desperate to remain hidden deep within the dark, safe amongst the lies, that she's ended up believing in it whole-heartedly. So she lets it happen, of course she does. She wraps her arms around inevitability and holds it close, crisscrossed fingers laced impossibly tight, as she feels the gentle <em>thump thump thump<em>of its heartbeat beneath her palm.

It's a while before she speaks. It's always a while. They enjoy each other's company, relishing in the blistering warmth that irradiates from one another's sweat-soaked skin as occasional touches here and there are scattered listlessly across bare-backs and brazen necks. It's better when they don't talk. That's what she says. **"Britt..."**She runs a finger lazily up the arm draped across her waist. She doesn't say anything else, of course. She never does. Brittany doesn't know why. She'd never really thought to ask.

Breakfast is always simple: two big mugs of coffee - three sugars for San, Brittany would never forget - and a slice of toast. They sit on the counter, both dressed in one of Britt's old baggy t-shirts, Santana's head now resting absently against the blonde's shoulder. The radio by the window crackles blissfully to itself, the soft hum of 5:00am music pushing and tugging at the easy silence. It's cold in the kitchen. Brittany feels Santana move closer, their bare legs intertwining almost instinctively as they clasp their steaming cups with both hands, the blonde's cheek now resting lazily atop the Latina's head. **"I'm tired, San."** she says with a small, lazy smile. **"Do you think it's too early to go to the Lima Bean? I mean, I know it's five in the morning, but I really feel like one of their frappuccinos..."** She feels a kiss brush against her shoulder; her muscles tense, shivers of a fiery want flickering down her arm bones. **"San?"** she breathes, the name rolling off her tongue like hot butter.

The Latina lifts her head, her dark gaze eagerly tasting the band of sweat hot about her neck, travelling upwards before settling longingly on Brittany's throbbing pulse point. She licks her lips. **"Britt-Britt..."** She takes her hand and squeezes it. The blonde waits, ever patient, rubbing her thumb idly back and forth, delicately tracing the gentle rise and fall of her best friend's skin, the breadth of each knuckle, the pulse of each fingertip, carving silenced words into her quivering flesh.

But she doesn't say anything else. She never does. Brittany doesn't know why. She'd never really thought to ask.

**B*S**

Santana looks at her, her dark eyes piercing every feature, soaking up every inch of skin, watching every breath - _in and out_ - hope clinging to her flesh like pixie dust, iridescent and weightless. So innocent and pure, and yet so well travelled. She was just as damaged as Santana in that sense. No feeling of self worth, just throwing themselves around because they're hot and they can. Like they're nothing. Well, she is definitely something. Such a big something - to her at least. She's her. And she's beautiful.

Except, of course, she really isn't. She's just Brittany, and that's all she'll ever be. Because she can't be anything more. She's never let herself get that far. It's just another wall she's built for herself, out of fear, out of caution. She's too guarded, she knows that. They do what they do because it's fun. She doesn't care about anything else; just that she gets what she wants. The fact that she gets it from Brittany is just a fanciful coincidence.

But those eyes. Those brilliant cobalt eyes. She loses herself in that gaze. She always has done. Every day, for as long as she can remember.

And then that same burning fire crawls up her throat, tying knots in her windpipe. She feels the words form in her mouth, pressing against the insides of her lips. And she so desperately wants to tell her. With all her heart. But she can't. Because Brittany's wrong. It's better when it doesn't involve feelings.

_It's better when it doesn't involve eye contact._

The toast she's made tastes like cardboard; she instantly regrets declining Brittany's offer of peanut butter. She decides to take a hefty sip of coffee in an attempt to relieve the dryness. The bitter liquid sears her tongue and, before it can burn the roof of her mouth, she swallows. Perfect, as always. She smiles; three sugars. Brittany never forgets. Not ever. Her hold on the blonde's hand tightens. She responds with a kiss, her lips brushing gingerly against her ear.

Her phone buzzes. It's Quinn.  
><em><strong>"5:13am : Coffee? Bring Britt. x".<strong>_

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><p>Review? You know you want to... Lord Tubbington will eat you if you don't. ;)<p> 


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